


Affairs and Consequences

by NathanielCardeu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Explicit Language, F/M, Homophobic Language, Mild Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: Adultery. Betrayal. Revenge. When she catches her husband cheating, Hermione finds support and solace with the family that loves to torment her husband’s. As she looks for a way to get her revenge on both of the people who betrayed her, she finds that there may be a way to move on and love again.





	1. Anger Is Love Betrayed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing! The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB.

The rain poured down from the steel grey sky. The blackened thunderheads rumbled threateningly, but so far had failed to produce anything but desultory mutterings. Hermione Weasley didn’t doubt that things would change, for the worse, before too long. The sky was angry and had only gotten angrier as the day had worn on.

She kept a tight grip on her emotions as she raised her hand once more, preparing again to hammer on the large oaken door before her. Her own anger was demanding that she batter the doors down, but her head was in control once more; it had only been a few moments since she had last knocked, she needed to give someone time to get to the door. Nothing would be gained from…

She battered the door with a clenched fist, the wind flicking her wild, bushy hair around her face and into her mouth, annoying her even more as she spat and sputtered. She could hear the echo of her knocking and the faint sounds of someone walking closer, clearly not in any hurry to greet her.

Her breath huffed into the frosty air in clouds of steam and she chewed the inside of her cheek, desperately striving for calm as the latch inside was thrown and the door pulled open. She was momentarily taken aback, about to launch into her speech, when she realised that the person opening the door was not the small house-elf she was expecting. Her gaze rapidly climbed up the finely tailored trousers, over the expensive looking belt buckle and fine shirt, up towards the finely groomed face of Lucius Malfoy.

An eyebrow quirked as Hermione’s brown eyes finally met his pale grey ones and the witch grunted in annoyance at the sardonic smile on his lips. “Opening your own door now, Malfoy?” she snapped sarcastically, fighting down a strange flutter at the vaguely suggestive look in the older man’s eyes.

Without waiting for a reply, she pushed the door open and shoved past the tall man, Lucius moving deftly to avoid the rain that followed the dishevelled witch in.

“And a pleasant evening to you too, my dear,” he drawled. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company on this frightful December evening?”

“Where is he?” she said, her voice filled with barely restrained anger. The witch barely heard Lucius’s querying response, her eyes drawn to the main hall of the Manor. The walls had been drab and grey, little more than bare stonework, broken up by the occasional portrait, the last time she had been here, with her husband. Now they were decked for the season; strings of glittering lights spanned the open space; bright and colourful tinsel was hung across the usually dour pictures; a huge, bushy tree was being decorated by a pair of house-elves.

The giant tree was at least 12 foot tall and Hermione had to admit to herself that it did look beautiful. Then she noticed the man overseeing the work, a glass of creamy eggnog in his left hand. His smart but casual clothes looked finely fitted and tailored; a black suit that hugged his form in all the right places. Draco heard her heavy, stomping footsteps as she moved rapidly across the open floor and turned to greet her, a wide grin on his face and a holiday greeting on his lips.

He didn’t get a chance to say more than her name, however, as the furious woman drew back her fist and then powered it forward, catching the young man on the cheek, just below the left eye, and knocking him flat onto his back. His glass went flying from his hand, shattering on the stone floor and spilling the creamy liquid everywhere. The house-elves stopped what they were doing and stared in shocked surprise, hands still, decorations poised.

Groaning in pain, Draco sat up. “Wha… What the hell was that for?” Draco yelled, hand clapped to his face.

“You fucking knew about it, you little weasel-faced bastard!” Hermione screeched at him, spittle flecking her lips, her hair crackling with the heat of her anger. “You knew all along and you said nothing! He was cheating on me for three bloody weeks… and you knew!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Three weeks earlier…_

“Viktor! Over here!”

Draco’s voice finally caught the international Quidditch player’s attention and the dark-haired man turned to look in his direction. Malfoy waved again and Viktor Krum returned the greeting with a curt nod, leaning down to his female companion’s ear and whispering for a brief moment, before turning and moving towards the younger man.

“Dobre doshal, Viktor,” Draco said, holding out his hand, “ne sam te vizhdal mnogo vreme. Kak si?”

“Az sam dobre, Draco,” the taller man said with a smile, his accent as strong as his handshake. “Vour Bulgarian is improving, my friend, it has indeed been a long time. How are preparations for next month’s match?”

“Well,” Draco said with a smile, “very well. The venue is all set up and ready to go. Only a few last minute details to iron out, you know how these things go.”

Krum nodded, his eyes lifting over the young Malfoy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, please. I see someone I must speak vith.”

Barely waiting for a response, the older man nodded politely and stepped around Draco, walking swiftly across the room towards a knot of people, most of whom the blond man recognised. It was the England Quidditch team, almost in their entirety. The two teams were meeting at this little get-together, in advance of the match that Draco had been organising. The international friendly was due to take place the day before Christmas Eve and he was flying solo, for the first time, taking on all the responsibility, with his father’s blessing.

He watched as Krum greeted the players with hugs and handshakes. Even Weasleby got a hearty greeting; truly there was no accounting for taste, Draco thought with a grin.

He still disliked Ron, even though it had been years since their Hogwarts days. The fact that he had gone on to play for England and become good friends with not only with his own Quidditch hero, but with many players that Draco himself still idolised, did not sit well with the young man. “Lucky git,” he muttered to himself, and then realised with a start that he was not alone.

A young woman had walked up to him whilst he had been distracted and Draco fixed a polite smile on his face as he turned, taking her hand and planting a gentle kiss on the back of it, all while searching his memory for her name. “Enchanté… Or, I should say, priatno mi beshe! Sofija Dragonova, yes?”

“Indeed, Mister Malfoy, a pleasure to meet you too,” the young lady said with a slight bend of her knees, her accent as strong as Viktor’s. “I understand that you are arranging the living quarters?”

“Indeed, amongst most other things.” Draco admired the pale-skinned beauty before him. _Truly_ , he mused, _some men are just lucky bastards_. Viktor Krum’s long-term girlfriend, a Chaser on the Bulgarian national team, was beautiful indeed; smooth, unblemished skin, long dark hair that tumbled in lustrous curls, toned and firm legs, perfectly large, full... He stifled a sigh of pleasure at the girl’s cleavage, glad that he was the taller and that she was looking around at the moment, affording a perfect aerial view. _Definitely a lucky bastard._

“Dobar. Then I have a request that requires your utmost discretion, Mister Malfoy.”

“Anything within my power, Sofija.” His eyes lifted to her face, just before she looked back at him and he mentally congratulated himself on his surreptitious letch.

As Sofija began to speak, Draco struggled to keep his eyebrows down and his eyes on the woman, rather than looking over at Krum. _Well, this is a turn up for the books, and no mistake!_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ron Weasley awoke, startled out of his sleep suddenly, his mouth dry and feeling full of cotton. For a moment he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling and the room around him; the fine wall coverings and beautiful pictures of far off lands; the fireplace with its flames dancing merrily within the grate.

The momentary confusion passed as he felt the bed shift underneath him and he remembered that he was not alone. He smiled as he glanced over at his companion, taking in the smooth back, the pale, creamy skin and the sleep tousled, dark hair. He reflected on the preceding night of passion and the pleasant ache in his limbs.

Turning to press himself against his bed mate’s back and buttocks, he lifted his right hand and stroked it gently over their shoulder; their soft sigh caused warmth to spread through his lower body.

Ron reflected on the last couple of weeks, since the Bulgarian team had arrived, as his lover started to awaken. He had never thought of himself as an unfaithful man. He loved his wife, had done for years. This affair though… it was so different and exciting. And they had so much more in common too! They were both international Quidditch players, for starters. Ron and Hermione were, as had been pointed out by several people, intellectually uneven, to say the least. He knew this, couldn’t deny it with any degree of reality; the clever witch was so far above him in terms of academic ability it was laughable that she had agreed to be his in the first place!

As the warm body snuggled closer into his side, Ron smiled at the sleepy “Morning.” He still found the Bulgarian accent funny, but it warmed his heart and he tucked himself closer, wrinkling his nose slightly, as sleep mussed hair tickled his nostrils.

He was just glad that Draco hadn’t asked too many questions when Sofija had asked for a room, separate from Viktor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Severus Snape had never believed in emotive outbursts. He had never, or at least not since his youth at least, indulged in any demonstrative displays of emotion. Severus Snape was a closed book to most people.

Which was why he was finding his current visitor a distinctly unpleasant intrusion into his peaceful existence.

Snape’s sitting room, where he played host to his few guests, had undergone a dramatic change from its neglected appearance in his Hogwart’s years. Where before the furniture had been threadbare and dilapidated, it was now fresh and clean; the table was new and no longer rickety, the armchair renewed and plump, the sofa opposite had been reupholstered in black leather that gleamed in the lamp light. It was a comfortable room now, the walls still lined with his vast collection of leather bound books. Extra lamps had been added, increasing the light in the room to a comfortable and cheery glow, rather than the dim, flickering light of a single candle that had once hung from the ceiling.

Severus usually enjoyed—though it was an unspoken enjoyment—Hermione Weasley’s visits; she had taken over as the new Potions teacher at Hogwarts, after he had retired to recover from the injuries he sustained at the Battle of Hogwarts. She was a quick study, a sharp teacher, and at least as strict as he had been though tempered with a little kindness. Her students learned quickly and they enjoyed their lessons, something that Snape had never worried too much about; they were not supposed to be there to have fun after all.

Usually they chatted about obscure flora and old methods of teaching and mixing potions and ingredients; interesting subjects.

Today though… Merlin save him! She had arrived at his door, babbling and crying into what, at some point in the past, must have been a handkerchief of some kind. Now, it would better pass as a used dishcloth!

“He was… he was just doing…” Hermione couldn’t continue, looking up at her mentor’s impassive face, tears and mucus running down her cheeks and over her mouth. “Oh Severus, he’s been having an affair! All this time, he’s been cheating on me… and with…” Her words devolved into shuddering sobs, bubbling and sniffing disgustingly, her face falling to her hands once more.

With an audible and put-upon sigh, the dark-haired man gestured with his wand, sliding a box of tissues towards the distraught woman. She pulled a handful out, dropping the sopping wet tissues that had been pressed against her face. As she blew her nose noisily, wiping her eyes and continuing the hiccough and whine incomprehensibly, Severus looked down his nose at the crumpled ball of tissue on his nice, oak coffee table. His mouth twisted in distaste and levitated the wad with a swish and flick of his wand, moving it over to a nearby bin. It dropped into the brass depths and burst into flames, burning up instantly. Snape moved his wand above the surface of the table, clearing the residue of Hermione’s outpouring, even as the witch continued to mumble and cough at him.

“I don’t understand… maybe I didn’t do enough for him? I know I’m no Molly, but I’m a fairly decent cook! Why was he… How could he do this?”

Severus raised his eyes to the ceiling, praying to all the gods he could remember for strength. If he had to take another minute of her bubbling, dribbling emotional nonsense, he didn’t think he could be held responsible for his actions. “Mrs Weasley,” he said, making his voice as dry and as bored as he could, “is there a reason why you are inflicting your blubbering upon me, rather than one of your friends? Clearly you have mistaken me for someone who takes an interest in matters of the heart… especially those of emotional girls.” His tone was designed to antagonise and he wasn’t disappointed at the fire that lit in the dishevelled witch’s eyes as she glared up at him.

“What?” Her voice was quiet, seething with emotion, but the overall effect was ruined by her blotchy complexion, tear streaked cheeks and runny nose.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow at her and sniffed delicately. “You have never given me reason to doubt your hearing capability, Hermione, and so I can only assume that your question is rhetorical.”

“I… I thought you cared, Severus!” Hermione’s bottom lip began to tremble and Snape, his face remaining impassive, realised that the woman was so close to the edge of despair that it would take a serious shove to save her; otherwise she would topple and fall forever.

Feigning indifference, though his heart clenched for the pain the poor young chit was going through, he forced himself to shrug. “I can’t imagine why you would think that.” Snape brushed some imaginary dust off of his sleeve. “I am certain, however, that should you wish to investigate the matter of your husband’s indiscretion further, the younger Mister Malfoy would be a good place to start.”

Hermione blinked, staring at the former Potions professor in distress and confusion. “Draco? But why…”

“I believe it is he that has organised the accommodation for the visiting Quidditch players. Any change to the arrangements would have had to be sanctioned by him.” Snape shrugged again, leaning back in his large armchair and lifting his cup of tea to his lips once more. “One as clever as you are purported to be should be aware of this, surely.”

Over the rim he watched the cogs turn in the young witch’s head, smiling to himself as her face slowly shifted from distress to anger and onwards towards fury. It always intrigued him how her hair seemed to become bushier and wilder when she was incensed.

“He would have known that Krum and his girlfriend had separate rooms…” she muttered. “The request would have had to have been made when they first arrived.” Hermione stared at the table as she thought, hands clenched into fists. “Draco is bound to have been told a vague reason… and a long term couple asking for separate rooms would have intrigued him. Let’s face it, he’s too much of a sneak to have _not_ looked into things.” She glared up at Severus and the older man simply smiled blithely as she continued. “He must have known about the affair. Even if he didn’t at first, he would have found out pretty quickly!”

The furious witch surged to her feet. “That little fucker’s known for days, weeks even! And he never said a thing!”

“Celebrity status, it appears, buys a lot of averted eyes,” the black-robed man murmured. “Fortunately for Mister Weasley, he is not the one masterminding his affair, or you might have found out sooner. Oh, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from Disapparating whilst in my lounge, Mrs Weasley. Please use the designated Apparition point in the alley opposite.”

His dry tone stopped Hermione dead. She stared at him in shock for a moment and then gave a snort of laughter. “You’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you, Severus?”

“I cannot possibly imagine what gave you that idea. I simply understand that you have something important to do, so I’ll not detain you.”

Shaking her head with a slight laugh, Hermione turned and walked towards the door.

“But,” Snape said, barely raising his voice, forcing the witch to stop and look over her shoulder at the dark, shadowed man. “When you have finished with your business, please come again soon. I do so enjoy our little visits.”

Hermione smiled, genuinely happy with the comment, and she felt a flush of pleasure wash over her. Not anything romantic, of course—she could _never_ think of Severus as anything but a friend—but the thought that he actually enjoyed her company… “Thank you, Severus.”

He tipped his cup to her as she stepped through the door, hurrying off to her destination. Malfoy Manor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As Hermione lunged forward, planning on punching Draco in the face again, she found her wrist caught in a tight grip, held firmly. She whipped around, hair crackling with her rage, to see Lucius. He had moved up to her side and had caught her wrist, preventing her from punching out.

“Get off me, Lucius! I’m going to smack him again!”

As Draco scrambled backwards, regaining his feet as swiftly as he could, Lucius clucked his tongue and shook his head at the angry witch, as he would a wayward child. “Now, now, my dear. Try to keep a grip on your hormones, please.”

With a scandalised growl, Hermione twisted round and swung for him with her left, finding her wrist easily caught in Lucius’ other hand. The pair found themselves face to face, centimetres apart, arms crossed in front of each other. She was breathing fast, staring into the aristocratic man’s steel grey eyes, the intensity in them was breath-taking. She felt her heart hammering, and wasn’t certain just how much of it was down to her anger and how much was due to… something else. Hermione swerved away from that thought, refusing to follow it to its conclusion.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow at her and the slight smirk on his mouth made the woman’s stomach lurch slightly. “What now, petal?” the tall man said, with a predatory smile.

The smile was wiped off his face when she kicked him on the shin.

The shock in his eyes, as he released her hands and hopped back, clutching his bashed shin, was most satisfying and Hermione rounded on the younger man. “Stay where you are, Malfoy!” she hissed, grabbing his collar and stopping the man in his tracks as he made to run.

“Look,” he stammered, “I had no idea…” He grimaced, unable to finish the sentence and Hermione growled. “Okay, okay! Look, I knew _something_ was going on, alright?”

“Can we perhaps change venue?” Lucius asked, pulling attention back to him for a moment. “We can leave the elves to finish the tree in peace and retire to my study. I’m sure it will be a much more comfortable venue than stood in the hall.”

Without waiting for an answer, the finely dressed man turned and led the way through the Manor, with only a slight limp to his step. Draco watched the angry woman cautiously for a moment before standing to one side and inviting her to follow his father. “After you.”

“Worried, Malfoy?”

“About you attacking me as I walk? A little, yeah.” Draco fingered his cheek that was already starting to show a red flare upon it.

She smiled tightly, her eyes hard and angry still. Turning on her heel, her hair flaring out around her, the witch stalked after the calm and regal figure of the elder Malfoy. She found herself calming down as the journey continued; in fact she believed that Lucius was taking a longer route than strictly necessary, to reach his study. She was sure, when she had been there before, it had been a much shorter trip. Taking the hint Hermione began to focus on her breathing and struggled to get her anger under control. She still wanted to lash out but now she was willing to wait and hear Draco’s side of the story before she did so; he may have had genuine reasons for holding the information back from her. It didn’t stop her feelings of betrayal though.

She decided to focus her thoughts elsewhere for the time being. After a moment, she flushed with embarrassment when she realised that she had focused her attention upon Lucius Malfoy’s perfect looking arse. The way he moved, graceful, almost cat-like; his body was clearly toned and firm, it was intoxicating. It’s not like she hadn’t admired him before, of course. He was a finely put together gentleman, older certainly, but nothing too scandalous. Hermione blinked rapidly, realising where her thoughts were going. She was married for Merlin’s sake! She couldn’t be thinking about another man like that!

That thought reminded her of why she was here, what she had seen, and the anger began to return.

_The corridor in the hotel was clean and tidy, well lit and the carpet was in good condition. Its light green colouration was accented with silver stitching and symbols, clearly indicating a Slytherin influence in this wing of the hotel. Hermione followed the corridor, the device she had borrowed from George, clutched in her hand._

_He had assured her that it would follow Ron; that he had keyed it to his scent thanks to the item of clothing she had allowed it to ‘sniff’. It was a toy at the moment but, George confided, he had hopes of marketing it to the Ministry, for use by the Auror department to help catch criminals. As long as it proved to have practical merit, that is._

_So far, she thought, it did not. It was supposed to be following Ron, and he had told her he was going to the training ground, with the rest of the England team, gearing up for the match in a couple of weeks. At least, he was supposed to be. So far the device had led her past the training ground and on to the hotel where the visiting Quidditch team had been put up._

_Hermione followed the strange, sniffing box, as it led her into the opulently furnished foyer, into the lift, and upwards, stopping at each floor for a sniff. It pulled at her on the third floor, indicating that he had come this way and she had followed it down the corridor._

_Now she stood at a door, hearing noises from beyond the door that made her heart pound and her stomach tie itself in knots. Her breath came in short bursts as she quietly unlocked the door with her wand and pushed it open._

_Her world shattered at the sight before her._

“Now,” said Lucius, settling the—much calmer—witch into a plush armchair in his comfortable study. “Drink?” he offered solicitously. At her nod he moved to the side, pouring three drinks from a fine crystal decanter. Hermione caught the distinct tang of firewhiskey as the blond man brought the glass across to her, settling himself in the chair nearest hers.

Draco stayed standing, holding his own glass and staring into the amber liquid, as if it held all the answers. After a minute, realising that there was only the sound of the fire, crackling merrily in its grate, the young man looked up to find Hermione staring at him. Her glass was empty, a tight look on her face as she struggled to contain the shudder that wanted to course through her body. Lucius, glanced at his son, respect in his eyes for this display and a subtle look of surprise on his face.

Hermione gave a cough, clearing her throat and blinking rapidly. “Well, Malfoy?” she said, her voice a little hoarse. “Care to explain what’s been going on with my husband?”

“Look,” he began, taking a small sip of his own drink, “at first I had no idea, honestly! Sofija, Krum’s girlfriend, asked for the separate room when they first arrived. She asked for my discretion, so I said nothing.”

_The room’s bed was set horizontal to the door, both occupants visible from the doorway. Ron was standing on the bed, his arms wrapped around the legs of his partner, who was laid down, arms above their head, bound with silk scarves to the headboard. Their body bent upwards, legs and bottom facing the ceiling, ankles hooked over Ron’s shoulders, as he thrust frantically, his pale skin flushed and slicked with sweat._

“When she didn’t elaborate, naturally, I was curious and… kind of… staked it out.”

“And when did you realise it was my husband that was going to that room and fucking someone else? When were you planning on telling me about this?” Hermione surged to her feet, glaring daggers at the young man, who visibly blanched at the anger in her eyes.

“Easy now,” murmured Lucius, laying a placating hand on hers, urging her to sit, actually pulling her down to sit with him. She was sat before she realised that she was now perched on the older man’s knee! She started to stand, but Lucius had a gentle but insistent grip on her arm. “It’s okay. Let’s just let Draco explain things and tell what he found before you take another swing at him. There will be plenty of time for recriminations later.”

Hermione felt herself quiver slightly at the gentle stroke across her skin as Lucius held her, his thumb moving across the back of her hand. Back and forth, back and forth, gentle and calming, and yet intoxicating at the same time. She couldn’t process her feelings right now; she was angry, intrigued, disposed towards violence—towards Draco at least—and a little turned on at the older man’s touch. She needed time to separate her emotions and deal with things properly. Ron first!

_Their grunts of pleasure filled the air in the room, the scent of their sex hanging like a miasma in the air. Hermione could only stare. She found herself unable to make a sound as she took in the sight before her. She wanted to scream in denial. She wanted to pick up a chair and beat the shit out of the pair of them. She wanted to cry, to run, to hide. She wanted to die._

“It was a few days before the curiosity got the better of me and I decided to start observing this extra room of theirs. And it was a couple of days after that that I first saw Ron go in there.” Draco swallowed the rest of his drink with a sour twist to his mouth, clearly battling with his emotions at this point. “I was angry, confused… and a little jealous, if I’m honest.”

Hermione’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline and her eyes opened wider than Draco had ever seen before. “You… you were jealous?” Her voice was almost a shriek and Lucius turned a sardonic eye towards his son.

“Was this perhaps your reason for concealing our guest’s husband’s dalliance from her?” the older man drawled, knowingly. “Perhaps wishing to find a way of spying on the two for a bit longer? Maybe we are seeing a voyeuristic side to you, my boy.” An edge of annoyance crept into his voice at this and Draco sputtered a little, trying to protest.

“No, father! And,” he admitted with a wry, sheepish grin, “I didn’t see anyone else enter that room. They must have been there already.”

The witch stood, stepping away from the pair before turning and looking at them both in disbelief, her hair starting to crackle with supressed anger. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”

_As she stared into the room, Hermione heard her blood pounding in her ears. Her skin prickled with shame and hate and sorrow. The pair on the bed suddenly became aware of her, that the door was open, and after a moment of confusion, the air was filled with Bulgarian swear words and Ron’s stammering voice._

_He staggered back, sliding out of his partner, his cock rapidly shrinking as the act of getting caught robbed him of his erection. “Hermione! I… oh Merlin, I… I’m sorry, I never…” He continued babbling, the words washing over the witch as she stood, hands clenched into fists._

“Well, my dear,” Lucius said, “I’ve seen Viktor’s current squeeze. I am not surprised that Draco was quite enamoured of young Sofija…”

“WHAT!?”

_She couldn’t speak. She wanted to destroy him, but she couldn’t move. She could only stare._

_“Hermione,” Ron stammered, taking a hesitant step towards her. “I’m sorry…”_

_Before he could speak again she closed the door quietly and leant against it for a moment, just breathing, trying not to be sick. With her heart falling in pieces, she turned and left the hotel._

Father and son stared at each other in confusion, unable to understand Hermione’s reaction. They didn’t remain confused for long.

“He wasn’t in there with Sofija, you pair of idiots!” Hermione spat, magic starting to spark from her hair and fingers as her anger raged. “He was fucking Viktor!”


	2. Bitterness is Revenge Planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Homophobic language warning goes here**

Hermione sat on her bed, in the guest wing of Malfoy Manor, head in her hands. She had no tears anymore; she had cried as much as she was willing to over the last few days. She hadn’t been able to go home, not for long at least. Draco had accompanied her to collect a bag of clothes, but she had made sure that Ron had not been home first. She hadn’t, at the time, known what was worse; that Ron could have been there or that he clearly hadn’t been home since the ‘incident’.

 

She had been offered and—after some consideration—accepted Lucius’ offer of staying in one of the many guest rooms of Malfoy Manor. Each day she woke up, was assisted by one of the elves to get ready, and met with Lucius to take breakfast. At first she hadn’t been completely comfortable allowing the elf to dress her and so insisted on doing this herself, much to the elf’s discomfort—he later appeared to have told on her, as Lucius brought it up at breakfast on the third day.

 

“I am not sure why you would not avail yourself of all the facilities here, during your stay.” His tone had been light, but Hermione was sure there had been a slight teasing edge to his voice. “Knocky is there to help you, it’s what he does. And he does it very well.”

 

“Is he a free elf?” she had asked, pouring her own tea before Knocky could pick up the pot. The elf had stood back, wringing his hands a little, his large eyes swivelling between Hermione and Lucius.

 

“Are you free, Knocky?” Lucius hadn’t looked at the elf as he spoke, concentrating on his full English, as if it was the focus of his world.

 

Knocky’s eyes had widened even further and Hermione had been sure that they bugged out from his head. “Knocky is a proud elf and serves the Malfoy family! Knocky does not wish to be… free.” This last had been whispered, almost like it was a dirty word.

 

“There you are,” Lucius had declared, giving Knocky and the witch a bright smile, “young Knocky here is perfectly happy and would probably be much happier if you would consent to letting him do his job.”

 

It had taken another couple of days before Hermione had finally relented, letting Knocky pick out her clothes and prepare them, even going so far as to draw her a bath at the end of the day. She was still not certain how she felt about the whole thing—still very conflicted mainly—but she had so much else to deal with, she couldn’t spare too much thought on it, not right now.

 

Her most pressing concern, right now at least, wasn’t house-elves, or Ron, or even her constant thoughts of revenge. It was Lucius bloody Malfoy and his subtle comments that disarmed her at every turn, cut through her armour and straight to her emotions. He was always polite, courteous, the perfect host. He was also, clearly, flirting with her!

 

At first she hadn’t been certain, thought that maybe she had been imagining things, but as the days went on she became more certain of it; Lucius Malfoy was flirting and—Merlin save her—he was very good at it!

 

They spent at least half of each day together at the moment, just talking. Lucius seemed to enjoy her company and wit and she, Merlin help her, enjoyed spending time with him. There were gentle touches as they walked through his home, just to draw her attention to something, or to steer her in the right direction if she got turned around. Standing close to talk and leaning in to confide, even though they were alone. His eyes conveyed so many messages that Hermione felt her face heat noticeably whenever he looked at her. It was awful; she was a married woman still, no matter that she was more than likely going to be applying to the Wizengamot for a divorce as soon as she could, and Lucius Malfoy kept telling her how this was a terrible shame; how he couldn’t believe Ron’s straying; that it seemed impossible to consider that anyone would not be satisfied with a woman of her grace and beauty.

 

She had scoffed at first, even as her face flared like a beetroot. After a week of it… she started to feel something more than disbelief or embarrassment. Now, his looks started to evoke a fire inside her belly that warmed her, and her dreams started to be a lot more interesting, too. At some time between her arrival and now, Lucius had begun to use her given name, rather than Mrs Weasley, or pet, or my dear, or any other number of nicknames he had for her. He used her name on occasion and the sound of it, floating from his mouth, caressed by his tongue…

 

Shaking her head Hermione cleared these thoughts as she stood, ready to start her second week at the Manor. Today, she decided, she had wallowed in her sorrow enough. Ron was not worth her time or the salt in her tears. And she would have her revenge, soon. That would be her Christmas present to him this year. She would also deal with the issue of Lucius Malfoy later.

 

As she washed and dressed, she considered the sort of revenge she wanted. Something public, something messy. Her mind conjured broken and severed limbs and she dialled it back a little. She wanted to hurt him the way she had been hurt, but she didn’t want to maim anyone, that wasn’t who she was, not really.

 

She was quiet and withdrawn during breakfast, deep in thought, and it was a little while before she realised that Lucius had been trying to get her attention for a while. “Sorry Lucius,” she apologised, “I was thinking.”

  
“On something deep and heavy, if the creases in your forehead are anything to go by,” the blond man said, with an indulgent smile. As Hermione rubbed her forehead he gave a slight laugh. “Do not be concerned, your skin is still smooth and wrinkle free; the forehead of a beautiful young woman. Something I’m sure your second husband will be telling you for years to come.” He deftly skewered a piece of bacon and tomato and popped them into his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers.

 

Hermione felt her face heat as she tried to meet his eyes. They were so intense and fervent. So… predatory. She was convinced, more than ever, that Lucius Malfoy had designs upon her, ridiculous though that seemed to her. She was married, for the moment at least. She was, more importantly, a Mudblood. Lucius was still a proud wizard and his reputation remained a priority; he wouldn’t sully his family’s name by taking a mistress, who had dirty blood and was about to divorce in a very public way. She glanced into his eyes once more, noting that they still hadn’t changed. _Would he?_

 

“How is Narcissa?” she asked suddenly, desperately needing to divert his attention from her, even if it upset him.

 

She felt awful the moment she spoke but the tall man didn’t flinch or grimace or seem to get angry at all; his smile simply faded slightly and his eyes grew sad and haunted. Hermione mentally cursed herself for being so callous.

 

“Her mind is degenerating, as expected.” His voice was quiet, stripped of emotion; simply stating the facts. “The Black family curse seems to be a reality, after all. It has rapidly taken away her sanity. Her mind has almost completely let go of reality and she is not expected to live past the end of the year. She has begun to refuse food and water now, thinking the staff at The Serenity Resort is out to get her.”

 

“Lucius…” Hermione began, reaching out towards him, wishing she could pull her previous words back.

 

“She has not recognised me for many months.” Knocky stepped up to Lucius’ side, pouring his master a fresh cup of tea before stepping towards Hermione and doing the same. The witch was so caught in Lucius’ emotions that she simply held out her cup to the elf, barely registering his happy smile as he got to serve.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up…”

 

Lucius reached out, his larger hand covering hers, fingers stroking across the back and a sad smile gracing his lips. The sensation pulled Hermione’s breath from her lungs and the blond man was abruptly the only person in the world; he was the focus of her attention, his sorrowful eyes pulling at her heart and his touch sparking desires inside her that she had thought had been killed forever the moment she had opened that hotel room door.

 

“It is fine, Hermione. I have… accepted things are the way they are. The Wizengamot agreed to dissolve our marriage, in light of the circumstances and at my request. As of two months ago, Narcissa and I are no longer married.”

 

His matter of fact tone dropped Hermione’s jaw and she could only gape at the man for some moments. “You’re going to just leave her where she is and let her die, alone? Lucius! How… how can you do that? She is… _was_ … your _wife!_ ”

 

“I am fully cognizant of the consequences of my actions, Mrs Weasley.” His voice turned cold and he withdrew his hand from hers, plucking his napkin from his lap and tossing it onto his plate. “The Serenity Resort is one of the best mental health facilities our world has to offer. They will make her as comfortable as they can until she dies.” Lucius stood, his demeanour angry, and Hermione felt a cold lump in her stomach, hating herself for trying to judge his actions. “I have spent the last three years trying to remain a devoted husband to her, but she is no longer the Narcissa that I once loved. She has already gone to a better place. Someone worse than Bellatrix lives in that room now, and I want no part of her.”

 

Hermione stammered for a moment, as Lucius walked away, before calling out, “Lucius… please, wait. I’m sorry.” As Lucius paused, Hermione left the table, walking up to his side and holding onto his sleeve.

 

“There are many reasons for my actions, Hermione,” he said, his voice quiet. “I am not a young man anymore and I need to look to my home. I only have one son and heir. One who carries the bloodline of the Black family. I am concerned for Draco, naturally, but I must also be prepared for the consequences, should he follow his mother and aunt. He is my only heir and I cannot beget another while I am tied to Narcissa. It is both an emotional and pragmatic decision I have made, though I am aware that it must seem callous to one on the outside.”

 

Hermione shrugged slightly, her hand dropping from his sleeve to slip into his hand. She squeezed it slightly. “Only a little,” she said with a small smile. As Lucius returned it, Hermione felt her heart skip a beat again. It stopped altogether when he faced her and gently tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear with a gentle finger. Her breath trembled at his touch and she found herself lost in his eyes for a moment.

 

“Now then, my dear,” he said, his smile brightening, “what was it you were thinking about earlier, that had you so concerned?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Draco had not been at the Manor much in the last few days. As the preparations for the Festive Quidditch match between Bulgaria and England kicked into high gear, the young man found himself busier and busier. Everyone needed him to sign off on things; agree to last minute changes; douse metaphorical fires. He found himself running around from the training grounds, to the hotel, to the venue. He barely knew which way was up anymore, he had been spun around by Apparition and Portkey so many times, just in the last couple of days.

 

He was startled by a knock at his door and he realised that he had been staring at the letter before him for the last ten minutes, without taking in a word. “Enter.” He regretted letting them in immediately when he glanced up and saw who it was.

 

“Draco,” the nervous looking red-head said, his hands clutched together and his eyes dark with lack of sleep.

 

“Weasley,” Draco said, forcing politeness into his voice, “come in, please. Sit down. Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?” _A kick in the fucking teeth, perhaps?_

 

“No, thanks,” Ron mumbled, stepping forward and into Malfoy’s office. “Can we talk? About Hermione?”

 

“Sure. Are we talking as friends of Hermione, or as professionals connected to the Quidditch friendly?” Draco had walked around his desk and perched on the edge, nudging the smaller chair out with his foot and gesturing for the flame-haired man to sit.

 

“Friends of Hermione, of course,” Ron said, his tone annoyed as he started to sit.

 

“Good,” Draco said, flicking his wand. “ _Accio chair!_ ” The wooden chair slid out from underneath Ron’s descending backside and the man dropped to the floor with a startled cry. Smoothly, Draco snatched the chair up, spun it round and slammed it down on Ron’s chest, the wooden cross supports pressing onto his ribs and throat, pinning him to the floor. Draco straddled the chair and dropped heavily onto the seat, resting against the back and pressing harder onto the supine man. Leaning over the back of the chair and staring down, he smiled tightly at the choked gargle. “So let’s talk, Ronald.”

 

“Malfoy, get off, I can’t breathe!” Ron’s voice was strangled and Draco leant back, tilting the chair a little, relieving the pressure. The sound of Ron’s gasp for air was strangely satisfying to the blond wizard.

 

“Now then,” he said, “let’s talk about your behaviour, first of all.”

 

“Fuck off, Malfoy! I want to talk to Hermione and I know she’s staying with you and your dad!”

 

“Oo, manners, Ronnikins!” Draco’s tone was light as he rocked the chair forward, onto its back legs, dropping the support beam across Ron’s throat firmer than before, cutting off the man’s airway completely. “Let’s not make too many demands on my good graces. I agreed to talk to you, as a friend of Hermione; it would be remiss of me not to let you know just how fucking angry and disgusted I am at your dirty little shenanigans.”

 

Ron flapped weakly at Draco’s legs, his movements hampered by the chair legs, his breath gurgling in his throat, eyes bulging and his face, already bright red, slowly turning blue.

 

“Sorry? I can’t make out what you’re saying, Ron.” Draco leant back, tilting the chair back. Ron gave a lurch and began to cough violently, his face tilted to the side as he gasped in great lungfuls of air. “So, you’re a dirty, cheating bastard. That much is obvious. The fact that you think that Hermione would ever want to see you again, frankly, is laughable. I have no doubt that the next time you’re likely to see her is before the Wizengamot, appealing for the dissolution of your joke of a marriage!”

 

“Never… wanted… to hurt her,” Ron gasped out, his voice rough. “I never intended for this to happen again, honestly!”

 

“Happen again?” Draco asked, an eyebrow raised quizzically. “You and Krum happened before?”

 

“Months ago, in Spain, after the last World Cup. It wasn’t planned or expected. We… we were drunk and talking about our lives and Quidditch. Things... kinda…”

 

“Please,” Draco interrupted, “spare me the details! The fucking thought of it makes me sick.” Draco shook his head, his mouth twisted in distaste. “I can’t believe you, Weasley! You have a good looking, loving wife, of several years, and you go off and bum a Bulgarian! What the hell is that all about? Poor woman has spent the last week in tears, though why she should be wasting her time crying over you, you dirty little faggot, I’ll never know!”

 

“I’m not…” Ron’s voice choked off again as Draco leant forward, chair pressing into the red-head’s throat.

 

“You are a disgusting little shirt lifter and Hermione is better off without you!” His voice was angry, all pretence at civility gone. As Ron choked and struggled, Draco continued to speak, relentlessly bearing down on man’s windpipe, his disgust at what Ron and Krum had been doing spilling out. “You will stop trying to contact her. My father and I have managed to intercept every message so far; she doesn’t need the aggravation of having to deal with your drippy letters. But one more owl bearing a message from you, turns up at Malfoy Manor? I’m going to bring it back personally and stuff it down your throat! You understand me, you little queer?”

 

The blond man glared down, watching Ron desperately try to nod, clawing at the chair, tears in his eyes and his face a horrible dark purple colour. After another few seconds Draco stood, snatching the chair up and throwing it aside. Ron convulsed, drawing air in through his abused throat desperately as he curled into a ball and rolled to one side. Over the sound of the man’s retching, Draco pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket and threw it onto the ground, next to Ron’s head.

 

Straightening his jacket, the impassive man fastened a button and brushed the creases from his sleeves, looking down his nose at the twitching, sobbing man on the floor. “Clean yourself up and get the fuck out of my office, Weasley. If you’re still here in five minutes, they’ll have to carry you out in pieces!”

 

Turning away, Draco stalked to the door, throwing it open and striding out into the corridor.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“Where are we going, Lucius?”

 

Hermione held her wand at head height, the tip glowing brightly and casting shadows on the stone, curved walls of the tunnel. Moisture dripped in the distance and Hermione was forcefully reminded of the time she, Ron and Harry had been taken to Malfoy Manor, all those years ago at the height of the war. She knew Ron and Harry had been kept down in these catacombs, held prisoner while she… She steered away from that thought, refusing to remember her torture. Instead, she concentrated on their journey, wondering what Lucius had in mind.

 

“Not much further,” the tall man said, not turning around. “We are nearly there.”

 

They walked in silence for another minute before Lucius stopped at a door, set into the side of the corridor. The wood of the door was old and streaked with dirt. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in years, but Lucius passed his wand over it and it gave a quiet click and swung open on perfectly balanced and oiled hinges, without a sound. Standing to the side, the smiling man gestured for her to precede him into the shadowed interior.

 

The cautious witch walked forward, lifting her wand higher as she did so, casting the light in a wider arc. The room beyond the door was large, filled with shelves and desks. Potion apparatus filled nearby tables, dry and unused, seemingly for a long time if the accumulation of dust was any indication. The shelves behind the desks were filled with books and Hermione drank in the sight of all that knowledge, crammed into the darkened space.

 

With a flick of her wand she cast a ball of light, up to the ceiling where it nestled, casting its stark, white light over everything. More flares of light flickered across the room, cast from Lucius’ wand, striking lamps on the desks, torches set in brackets against the wall and candelabra on the ceiling. Very quickly the darkened room was fully light with bright, cheerful flames, dancing merrily.

 

“Wow… Lucius, why are all these books down here? Hidden away?”

 

“Just a collection of esoteric knowledge and paraphernalia that modern society tends to frown upon, in an uninformed way,” the blond man said, airily, stepping into the room and closing the door.

 

“This is all related to Dark magic, isn’t it?” Hermione said, turning surprised eyes to the aristocratic man. “You put on a good show of being an upstanding member of society, but in secret…”

 

“Our public face conceals our personal quest for knowledge,” Lucius stated, a slight smile on his face. “Draco and I have tasted everything the ‘honest’ world has to offer. We have continued our exploration of the so-called Dark arts, but much of what we study is not harmful to others, merely another way of looking at the world. Much as some of what the Muggles call Satanism, does not necessarily require one to bend knee to some diabolical demon and pledge one’s soul to the pursuit of death and mayhem. It is a more freeing view of the world, I would say.”

 

Hermione looked around at the books and apparatus all around, her fingers itching to look at the books. She knew that some of them would contain horrible, awful things, but she was desperately curious, all the same. No doubt these had been here during the war—probably before the war even—hidden away and protected every time the Ministry raided the Manor.

 

“You do not appear to be recoiling in horror, my dear,” he said, stepping closer. “Does the thought of our dark and terrible studies not chill your bones, as it should?” He took her hand, gazing into her eyes. “The conundrum you found yourself considering this morning? Well, this could just hold the solution.” He gestured towards the room at large. “It is yours, all of this. I give you free rein to make use of it as you see fit in order to gain the revenge upon Mister Weasley and Mister Krum.” He stepped closer, his skin seeming to burn with an inner fire. “I also give you myself and my knowledge, to question and to offer assistance in your endeavours.”

 

Hermione looked into the depths of his eyes, made darker by the shadows cast by the lamp light. A hungry light was in them and she found that she wasn’t scared, at all. She thought that she should be; Lucius Malfoy had been a Death Eater, the right hand of Voldemort and a terribly powerful wizard in his own right. The thought that he had not given up his Dark magic, that he still studied it in secret… but that he was willing to share this knowledge with her, to share his study and his books. He was willing to give her everything, it seemed, and not just his magic, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by.

 

“I would like that, very much,” she found herself whispering, her head tilting subtly to one side as his began to close the distance between them. Achingly slowly they closed together, Hermione’s eyes drifting shut, lips beginning to purse, wanting him to kiss her. She leant forward, towards him, desperate suddenly to feel his lips on hers, not knowing fully why she was so drawn to him, only that she was.

 

The sound of the door bursting open made her eyes fly open in shock and a scream burst from her throat. The door slammed against the wall with a terrible crash and Hermione sprang away from Lucius, eyes flying to the doorway to see Draco storm into the underground room, swearing and cursing.

 

Lucius was stood a short distance away, his wand twirling in his hand, dissipating the dust and cobwebs from the utensils and books. “Is there a reason why you appear to be swearing like a commoner, Draco?” he asked laconically, not looking at his son.

 

“That fucking bastard came to visit me today, at the office,” the younger man spat. “Wanting to see Hermione, as if he had every right, after what he’s done.”

 

“Ron came to see you?” Hermione asked, stepping forwards. “What did he say?”

 

“Just that wanted to speak to you about everything. Dirty little faggot probably thinks he can be forgiven for what he’s done.”

 

Hermione blinked at the vehemence in the young man’s voice, surprised at its heat. She felt unexpectedly offended at Draco’s words, the attitude he was displaying and she queried it in her own mind. It wasn’t that the act itself had angered Hermione so much—she didn’t have an issue with homosexuality and believed the people could love whoever they wished—it was more the fact that these two people, who she had trusted, had betrayed her so terribly. Ronald had pledged to love and protect her and he had cheated on her with another person; no matter the gender of that person, the betrayal was the same.

 

These thoughts flashed through her mind and she opened her mouth to call Draco on his homophobia. Before she could speak however, Lucius’ hand snaked out and cuffed the blond man around the head. “Don’t be a bigot, Draco!” he snapped. “Homosexuality is not the issue here; it is the betrayal that has hurt our guest. Your own Uncle, Rabastan, enjoyed the company of both men and women while he was alive.” Hermione was smiling at the taller man, warmed by his words, until he ruined it and the smile dropped from her face. “Besides, it is blood that matters. No offence,” Lucius said, glancing at her. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him as he smiled back, blithely, a twinkle in his eyes that told her he was pulling her leg.

 

“Fine,” Draco muttered, rubbing the back of his head. “I apologise, father, Hermione. I was out of line.” As Lucius nodded, Draco looked at the young woman and smiled tightly. “So, are we here to cook up some suitable revenge for Krum and the Weasel?”

 

Hermione grinned and looked at the books before her. She was bound to find something suitably efficient and nasty in here, perfect for the sort of humiliation and pain that she had felt. To visit it upon those that had betrayed her… And to think, she had nearly gone to George for help. She felt her smile turn wicked and laughed at the pleased look in the Malfoy men’s eyes. This would go beyond anything Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes could provide her.

 

“Oh yes, indeed, we are,” she whispered.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was the 21st December, two days before the match and Hermione was sat at the breakfast table, a large book resting on the table in front of her. She had been reading it for the last six hours, having barely slept. She knew that this was the book she had been looking for; the spells inside it had the capacity to make her revenge a reality. She had steered away from anything simplistic or too violent, despite Draco’s assertion that her revenge should be loud, messy and public, for maximum humiliation.

 

Hermione agreed with the loud and public, but didn’t want anything too messy. It was going to happen where children could see it after all!

 

Lucius sat at her side, quietly murmuring to her and pointing out parts of the pages that caught his attention, the pair of them sharing a quiet laugh together. Hermione barely noticed that she touched Lucius as often as he touched her. Still only gentle touches, almost as one would to a wild animal, letting it know that your touch would not hurt, that you were there to care for them. Lucius cared for her, of that she was sure, and she was beginning to care for him too.

 

She had found herself on the verge of telling him several times over the last few days but there was always something that interrupted them. She had to find the time, when there were no obstructions, no distractions. She blinked suddenly, realising that now was as good a time as any!

 

Draco was at the office, Lucius was right next to her, the elves had taken away the breakfast things and were giving them space. She turned to him, a slight smile on her face.

 

“Lucius,” she said, as the doorbell rang, the loud clanging echoing through the house. With a sigh she gazed up at the ceiling, mentally asking the tinsel and Christmas decorations why life seemed to hate her.

 

“One moment, my dear,” Lucius said, standing and heading towards the entrance hall.

 

She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him to a stop. “Wait, Lucius, please. I need to tell you something and we keep getting interrupted, every time, and if I don’t say it now I feel like I’ll never get the chance!”

 

“Ok, Hermione,” he said with a laugh, turning and dropping down to a crouch next to her chair. “What is it?”

 

“I think… I think I like you.” She grimaced at his amused look and ploughed on. “I know I’m still married…”

 

“For now.”

 

“Yes, for now. But I have enjoyed my time, living here with you… and Draco,” she added swiftly as his eyes took on a more knowing look. “And I’m finding your company is not… as onerous as I might have expected.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Yes, it is. You manage to keep a good house, with the help of the elves, of course. Wouldn’t expect you to manage it by yourself, of course.”

 

His smile was wide and warmed Hermione’s centre, flushing her cheeks with heat. As she glanced away she saw a woman stood in the entrance to the dining room, dressed in simple pale blue robes, her hands folded before her and a nervous looking elf, trotting across the room towards them. Looking in the same direction, Lucius stood abruptly, his demeanour changing. His look of pleasure vanished and he brushed past the elf as if she wasn’t there, not listening to the words she tried to say to him.

 

“What is it? Why are you here?” he asked brusquely.

 

The lady, who was wearing some kind of hospital style smock Hermione realised, bowed to the tall man before speaking, her voice quiet but firm. She was clearly in a position of authority but her tone was soothing: the news she delivered was anything but. “Mister Malfoy, my name is Sister Tessa, from The Serenity Resort. I am sorry, but I come bearing sorrowful news. Would you like to sit, sir?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Hermione saw Lucius stand taller, his jaw lock tight and she felt the blood drain from her face, knowing what was coming. She stood, walking towards him and taking his hand. He barely seemed to notice her.

 

“This morning, at around seven o’clock, Mrs Narcissa Malfoy passed away. She was peaceful when she passed, speaking to the nurse who brought her her breakfast, in a calm and coherent manner. Regrettably there was no time to call you to her side before she slipped away.” The lady paused, a small, sad smile on her face. “I am truly sorry for your loss, sir.”

 

“What happens now then?” Lucius asked, his voice seeming to Hermione’s ears to come from a long way off.

 

“Well, first we would ask you to come to the Resort, but only when you feel ready. There are documents to sign and so on but there is no rush. Please, take all the time you need, sir. The formalities can wait until after the holidays, honestly.”

 

“Thank you, for bringing me this news, Sister. Forgive me for my breach of etiquette. Can I get you anything?”

 

The Sister gave a smile and a sideways tilt of her head, halfway between a nod and a shake. “No, thank you Mr Malfoy, I should really return to the Resort.”

 

“Very well.” Lucius turned to the house elf, gesturing towards the Sister. “Please escort Sister Tessa, Gretty.”

 

The little elf bobbed a swift curtsey to Lucius, and then another to the Sister. “If the Sister would please follow Gretty?”

 

As the pair walked away, Hermione looked up into Lucius’ eyes and squeezed his hand. “Are you okay, Lucius? Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It is fine, my dear. As I said to you the other day, I was anticipating this and had made my peace with her.” Although his tone was matter of fact, Hermione found that she couldn’t believe him. “I must tell Draco the news too. I’m sorry, Hermione, I must leave you for the time being.”

 

He lifted her hands to his lips, planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles, before turning and walking away without another word. The witch hugged herself, suddenly alone in the large chamber. The cheerful decorations and beautiful Christmas tree seemed to mock the solemnity and sorrow of the occasion, with their bright, twinkling lights.


	3. Justice is Revenge Taken, the End Justifies the Means

The parlour was dark, with only the fire casting its fitful light across the red leather sofas, antique tables and cherry wood bookshelves. Hermione had tried to read for much of the day, while she had been home alone, but had found herself unable to concentrate on her plan for revenge after this morning’s sad news. As much as Lucius had appeared to stoically accept the news, she had a feeling that he felt the loss deeper than he would ever admit, probably to anyone. Lucius Malfoy was a closed book to most people; she herself had only been able to crack that façade a few times since she had begun her sojourn at the Manor.

 

She glanced over at the sofa opposite her, where Draco slumped, fast asleep. His eyes were still puffy with his tears but his breathing was deep and even; the sleep of the exhausted. She had been surprised when he had come home and began drinking, barely aware that she was there, helping himself to the crystal decanters by the window. She had remained quiet for a while, not wishing to disturb him, but when he had poured a fourth drink in quick succession she realised that she had to say something.

 

The pair had talked for some time, Draco surprisingly open with her—though she was sure the alcohol was helping to loosen his tongue. He had told her of his mother and the time he had spent, almost feeling smothered by her love. Things had only gotten worse after Voldemort fell. At the time, it had driven a wedge between them and they had struggled to connect again, after the war. Now, though, he wished he could have had that time back, to try again, to have his mother back at a time when she was still his mother.

 

Her heart had ached as he spoke and she found tears in her own eyes. She had cried to herself later, curled up in the chair after Draco had slumped and began to snore. The family had been through so much over the years, and despite the darkness and the blood on their hands, Hermione was beginning to really understand them and the powerful familial bond that guided their actions.

 

It had been some time, after the sun had descended and the elves had lit the fire, and Hermione began to get concerned about Lucius. He had gone to The Serenity Resort to deal with the paperwork, despite her insistence that he at least wait a little while longer. That had been nearly fourteen hours ago, and it was approaching midnight.

 

Hesitantly, quietly, she called for Knocky, the little elf appearing beside her in a gentle puff of white smoke. His clean, white pillowcase, his arms and head poking through neat holes, hung like a robe on his spindly frame. “Mistress called Knocky?” he asked, a helpful smile on his wide face.

 

“Yes Knocky, thank you, but please stop calling me ‘Mistress’. I’m not your employer, I’m Hermione.”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” Knocky said, with a little bow.

 

Hermione shook her head and sighed. “Master Lucius, has he returned yet?”

 

“Master Lucius is in his study, Mistress,” the little elf said, with a squeak, and then promptly head butted the table with a crash, falling to the floor for a moment.

 

Her hands to her mouth in surprise, Hermione knelt down and helped the little elf to stand. “He told you not to tell me, didn’t he? No, no, no!” She grabbed Knocky’s wrists as he nodded and then tried to punch himself in the face. “It’s okay, forget I asked. I said _stop it_ , Knocky!” This last was delivered sternly as the elf strained to bite his hand and Hermione moved it out of his way.

 

“Knocky was worried.” The little elf looked at the floor, his lips trembling and Hermione gave him a hug.

 

“Look after Master Draco, Knocky. That’s an order.”

 

The authoritative tone brightened the elf’s face and Hermione sighed inwardly, but left him happily fussing over the young blond wizard, plumping a summoned cushion and helping Draco to lay down more comfortably. She had another Malfoy on her mind now.

 

It did not take her long to reach Lucius’ study, finding the door locked but not charmed in anyway. With a silent spell she unlocked the door and pushed it open. Lucius’ study was similar to the parlour, but with the addition of a large writing desk in the centre, facing the window, side on to the door, and overlooking the large grounds of the house.

 

Lucius was sat here, leant back in his chair, a crystal decanter on his desk, glass in hand. Hermione could not see his face, partially concealed as he was by the sides of the chair, but she watched as the glass disappeared from sight, a full two fingers of whiskey inside, and came back empty. Unsteadily Lucius placed the glass on the table and lifted the decanter. His grip was wobbly and the liquid sloshed around inside.

 

“Like father, like son,” Hermione muttered to herself, stepping in and walking swiftly up to the desk.

 

“Hermione!” Lucius declared, too loudly, as he caught sight of her, attempting to grab her hand and missing by a few inches.

 

“Lucius,” she said quietly, deftly snagging the whiskey from his hand, pouring her own drink and settling on her haunches next to him. “How long have you been here, alone.”

 

The normally reserved man blinked owlishly at her as he placed his finger and thumb against the side of the decanter, a few inches apart. “This long,” he slurred. He then gave a cough and a shake, settling back in his chair, out of sight again.

 

Taking a sip of her drink Hermione sighed and placed the decanter on the desk, out of Lucius’ reach. She gripped the edge of his chair and turned him towards her, the chair pivoting smoothly. The man looked down at her and smiled slightly, his aristocratic mask back in place.

 

“Do you want to talk about today?” she asked softly, touching his hand, feeling that tingle creep through her nerves and up her arm as he turned his hand to grip hers.

 

“Not particularly, pet,” he said. “The bureaucracy of dealing with the passing of a spouse, even an ex one, is complicated enough, without having to go over the details again. I went to the Quidditch pitch today as well though. Draco has done a good job.”

  
The young witch shook her head sadly, feeling her eyes sting at the way he was trying to change the subject but decided that this might be the best she could get from him. “It’s looking good, is it?”

 

“Oh yes,” he said, nodding sagely, “very good. The grounds are neat, the Christmas decorations are bright and cheerful. A very good job, and almost singlehandedly, really. Apart from the contractors of course.”

 

The young woman at his feet said nothing, just nodded, holding his hand and gazing at him, attentive, caring.

 

“This will be a victory for him, his first real step up in our business. I let him take the helm on this one, of course. Guessed it was time for him to sink or swim.” Lucius glanced at his glass, then the decanter a little wistfully. “He was ready for it of course. He has been for a long time, in truth, but I never gave him a chance to prove it to me. Caused a few fights between us, I can tell you,” he laughed.

 

“How come?”

 

“Why the fights? Have you met my son?” He laughed again, his throat sounding rough, looking down at her. “Oh, why he’s never been given a chance.” Lucius rested his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s been… difficult, since the war. Our name was so muddied by our actions as to be irretrievably stained. I worked so very hard to conceal our past, only admitting what I felt we could be forgiven for. Our defection before the end helped, of course, but people have long memories and even now, certain doors are closed to us.

 

“I never really wanted to put Draco in a position where he could cause damage. He is headstrong and impatient. He _was_ anyway. In truth, I didn’t want him to fail… at anything. I wanted to give him the world, do anything for that boy. He is my son, and my heir and the best thing I have done in this darkened life of mine.”

 

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat as she watched the tears in the blond man’s eyes balance on the point of falling. He did not even seem aware of them, his voice remaining the same, his face not registering the emotion swelling in his eyes. She wondered if he realised just how much of his inner thoughts he was baring to her, drunk as he was.

 

“Narcissa was always protective of him: too protective in my opinion. During his teenage years, he was a spoiled little brat and it affected our relationship. But she couldn’t seem to let go. In many ways that should have been my first clue of her mental state.” He shook his head, tears spilling at the motion and making wet tracks down his cheeks.

 

“Bellatrix was obsessive over the Dark Lord and it became stronger and stronger. Cissy began to talk about Draco, after the war, in the same way that Bella had spoken of her master. It scared me, if I’m honest, and I began to withdraw from her. Not that she noticed all that much, so wrapped up in our son as she was.

 

“But Draco began to feel stifled too, maybe even recognising the first signs of his Aunt’s madness in her. He came to work for me, preferring to spend time out of the home and away from Cissy’s grasping clutches. It did nothing for her humour, of course.” Lucius gazed down at Hermione, a small, wry smile gracing his lips, even as more tears appeared in his eyes.

 

The sad witch rubbed the back of Lucius’ hand, bringing it up to lay a gentle kiss upon the smooth skin. “It must have been hard.”

 

The handsome man sighed, resting his chin on his hand, elbow on the arm of his chair. “It is not so much the difficulty we had with Narcissa. Her mind degenerated until we were forced to institutionalise her for her own good; and for ours, really. She became violent and paranoid, her magic exploding from her at unexpected times. With her gone, life returned to normal, really. Draco and I became closer and our star continued to climb back into the heavens.”

 

Though his voice still did not change, did not show emotion other than pride, his eyes were clear portals straight through to his soul, and Hermione’s heart clenched at the sorrow and heartache she saw in their depths.

 

“The difficulty is my fear that Draco is going to follow his mother, his Aunt. He has the blood of the Black family in his veins and mine may not be strong enough to save him.” He looked at her, free hand stroking her cheek. She unconsciously pressed herself against his palm, revelling in his touch. Tears flowed freely down his face though he did not seem to notice them. “He is likely to go mad in time and I will lose my son and the very thought of it breaks my heart in two, Hermione. My family stands upon a knife edge and is likely to join my wife’s in ignominy and fade from the world. Draco and I are the last Malfoys alive now and any children that Draco has will carry the Black curse, go mad and die...”

 

“No, Lucius,” Hermione said, kneeling up, lifting herself higher and squeezing his hand again. “There must be a cure or a way of breaking the curse. There _has_ to be.”

 

The wizard smiled, leaning forward and cradling her face in his hands. “You are as wise as you are lovely. I know that your next relationship will be a success and that he will never hurt you, without being able to make it up to you soon afterwards.” She smiled, trying to speak but he talked over her. “I know this, because I have plans on that man being me.” He said it quietly, as if trying to convey a secret and the witch flushed, her face feeling hot, the prickle racing across her chest and down her body.

 

“I… I had no idea you felt this way,” she lied, smiling broadly, before biting her lip as he lurched towards her in his chair. She held him up as he drunkenly tried to kiss her, and she was torn; she wanted to kiss him, so very much, but he was so drunk that it wouldn’t be the hair crackling, finger and toe tingling moment that it should be. “Lucius, please stop. We’ll talk in the morning, when you’ve sobered up perhaps?”

 

The man rested his head on her shoulder and her skin shrank and burned up as she felt his breath on her neck. She could barely keep the sigh from her lips and her resolve trembled, shaken to its core and she struggled to resist his kisses and his…

 

She paused, blinking in confusion. He _wasn’t_ kissing her, she realised. Those breaths across her skin were _not_ whispered words of desire, as she had thought.

 

He was asleep: that was a snore!

 

With a put upon sigh, the witch stood, lifting and pushing Lucius back into his chair, his head lolling to the side. His mouth hung open and he snorted slightly as Hermione stood, stepping away from his chair. She looked down at him, arms crossed, her emotions at war; she was both relieved and a little put out. She shook her head and gave a quiet laugh before summoning Knocky to help her get the great and terrible Lord of Malfoy Manor into his bed.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was finally the day of the Festive Quidditch friendly between Bulgaria and England, a time that the entire Wizarding community in Britain had been waiting for. The match venue was decked out for the season; magical tinsel, baubles, trees and singing cards, bedecked every square inch of the ground. A magical cloud, supplied by George Weasley, provided a festive dusting of snow across the stands and the pitch, and the spectators happily threw snow balls at each other, each one exploding in festive confetti when they hit.

 

Hermione waited at the bottom of the stands, in the shadows of the steps as Lucius and Draco spoke with the Quidditch team captains, going over the final details of the match. Both men were happy and smiling about the upcoming match, nearly two years of planning finally coming to fruition.

 

The two captains shook hands with the Malfoy men then and turned, leaving to go back to their changing rooms, talking happily with each other. Lucius and Draco walked towards Hermione then, smiles still in place.

 

“Hermione, my dear girl!” Lucius enthused. “Today’s the day, the stands are full and this match is going to be amazing, for so many reasons.” He laughed and Hermione blushed at the feelings his voice evoked in her.

 

“Are you absolutely certain you don’t mind me doing this? On such an important day?” She wrung her hands nervously, glancing between the two men.

 

“Not having doubts now are we, Granger?” said Draco, with a laugh. Although the paperwork had only just been filed, Hermione had wanted to drop her married name sooner, rather than later.

 

“Sweetheart,” the older man said, taking her hands and holding them firmly, “both teams have reserves. That’s all I can say.” His eyes sparkled with anticipation and mirth, easing Hermione’s fears.

 

“We’ll see you in the stands!” said Draco, patting her on the shoulder and starting to climb to the top.

 

Lucius paused a bit longer, stepping up to her and leaning in. “Remember your anger at the critical point. It is so important, my dear.”

 

She nodded, steeling her nerve for what she was about to do. Lucius leant closer then, brushing his lips softly over hers and all thoughts left her mind in a rush. It had been so unexpected to have him kiss her, here, now. Her mind was completely empty as she pressed herself forward, into the kiss. She felt his hands grip her sides and she moaned, opening her mouth to him and letting him take her. Her arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him as close as she could, wanting to feel him consume her completely, as she felt his hands slid up her back and into her hair. The sensation of Lucius’s strong fingers stroking across her scalp lifted every hair on her body, as if she was in a magnetic field. As her tongue met and caressed his, her skin tingled, her toes curled; it was everything she had wanted their first kiss to be, and more.

 

All too soon it was over and Lucius was pulling away, looking a little flushed himself. Hermione was certain that her face was bright red. Biting her lip she smiled up at the blond man, her eyes sparkling with desire. “That… that was worth waiting for,” she whispered.

 

Lucius held her chin gently between finger and thumb and smiled widely. “And there will be many more after this day, that I promise you.” With that he was gone, smoothly stepping past her and climbing the steps, towards his seat at the top.

 

Left alone, Hermione sighed happily. She straightened her fine dress robes and picked up the box that lay at her feet. She could feel it tremble, the sensation travelling through her hands via the iron handles on the sides. It was heavy, but nothing she couldn’t handle. “Okay,” she said, blowing out a heavy breath, “let’s do this.”

 

She stepped out from under the stands, into the chill, winter sunshine and onto the pitch, nodding to the commentary box, high above. The commentator—who had been watching for her arrival—quickly began to announce her, reeling off her list of achievements and triumphs, her distinguished history.

 

“I give you, our guest of honour! Heroine of the War! HERMIONE! GRANGER!!”

 

The crowd had begun to roar as the announcement began, but this was nothing compared to the deafening bellowing that began as they saw her, striding across the pitch. Keeping her nerves in a tight grip she smiled widely, levitating the chest with her wand and waving at the rows upon rows of people. If anyone in the crowd thought it strange that she was announced using her maiden name, it didn't show in the rapturous faces she could see.

 

Reaching the centre of the pitch she let the chest lower to the floor and stood, hands behind her back, waiting. Her heart pounded at the number of people surrounding her and she looked upwards, eyes swiftly finding a pair of blond heads, near the top of the stands. She saw Lucius raise a hand in greeting and her smile widened even more.

 

“Please welcome, from Bulgaria! The Bulgarian National Team!!”

 

The attention was finally diverted from her as the Bulgarian team burst from their dressing room, roaring into the skies on their brooms, their red and gold uniforms glowing in the sunshine. Each one was introduced by name and they took their bows in mid air, their faces being projected onto large screen set along the sides of the stands, allowing everyone to see, no matter their position. Sofija’s name was called and Hermione couldn’t help but glare a little at the dark-haired Chaser, as she rocketed out of the tunnel and into the sky.

 

“Aaaaaaand their Seeker! VIKTOR! KRUM!!”

 

The bushy haired witch desperately kept a smile on her face, trying not to growl as the tall, dark and handsome man, soared into the sky to the adulation of the crowd. After another couple of circuits of the stadium, the crowd roaring themselves hoarse, the team alighted on the ground, to Hermione’s left.

 

“And now! Your home-grown heroes! Please welcome!! The English National Team!!”

 

Ron was first out of the tunnel, the white and blue uniform flapping in the wind, greeted by the roar of the crowd, but his eyes flew immediately to Hermione and he made as if to swoop down towards her. After a brief moment he thought better of it and returned to the sky; they would all be together on the ground in a moment and close to each other.

 

It seemed an age before the teams met on the pitch, each player shaking the hands of every other player before moving towards Hermione in a line, team by team. As they reached her they exchanged a few words as they took her hand. Several of the Bulgarian team—and even some of the English team—looked a little star struck at this honour. Hermione found this a little laughable but she was polite and friendly with each of them as they passed.

 

As Sofija reached her, the dark-haired woman took her hand and leant forward, as if to kiss her cheek. “I vish to say I am sorry for my part in your troubles. I vish you happiness in the future, Ms. Granger.”

 

Hermione was surprised and her mouth dropped open a little before she schooled her features into a smile once more. “Apology accepted, Sofija,” she said, and, bizarrely, found that she meant it too. “I bear you no ill will and good luck today.”

 

“Dobar,” she said with a relieved curtsey. “I shall also no longer be patsy for Viktor. He vill take care of his own business from now on.”

 

“Does he know this?”

 

“Not yet.” The little Chaser’s grin was vicious and Hermione laughed, leaning forward and kissing her cheek before letting her move on.

 

Then Krum was stood before her. He started to speak as Hermione took his hand but she shook her head, her grin fixed on her face. Memories of the times they had spent together; that wonderful night in her fourth year, when he had kissed her, when he had treated her like a Princess. The rest of that year he had made her feel like she was so important to him, that he truly cared. Over the years, after Hogwarts, they had kept in touch, writing to each other on occasion. Now… now it all lay in dust. She looked into his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it and I suggest you move on, Viktor, before something happens that I cannot control.” The man took the hint and moved on, his face setting into its usual stoic mask.

 

“Hermione.”

 

“Hello Ronald,” she said with a sigh, “how’ve you been?” She looked at the red-haired man that had, a few years ago, promised to be her partner for life. He seemed to have aged in the last few weeks but Hermione found nothing but a hollow emptiness in her stomach as she looked into his eyes.

 

“I wanted to talk to you but Malfoy keep interfering and preventing my messages. Please… can’t we talk about this?”

 

Hermione pretended to think about it, looking up at the sky for a moment. “Umm, no, Ronald. No, we cannot. We are done. I’ve filed the paperwork with the Wizengamot and it’s over in all but name.”

 

“I’m not gay!” he said, leaning forward, his hand on his chest, a look of earnestness on his face. It looked and sounded so ridiculous that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“That is… Merlin’s beard, that is _so_ irrelevant, Ron! I don’t _care_ , at this point, if you are gay, straight or something in between. You _betrayed_ me and you _hurt_ me and it is _over_.” She felt her lower lip start to tremble and the pain in her chest start to rise and she desperately fought to stop the tears coming, telling herself again that she was done with the tears. She focused instead on her anger, letting it fill her. Reaching out she grabbed his hand, gripping it firmly and staring into his eyes. Her wand, concealed between their palms, began to heat and Ron stared at her in shock.

 

“ _Let all know of your transgression; let no other lover come to you without first hearing your crime; let there be no peace for you as the nature of your crime against me becomes known to all, no matter how far, no matter how long; let this always be your punishment, from now, till the day you die!_ ”

 

The pair parted, their hands snapping apart as if shocked. Ron gaped at her staring between her and his hand. “What the… what the fuck did you just do?!”

 

“Get on your broom, Ronald,” Hermione hissed, “and get the fuck away from me, before I kill you where you stand. The match is about to start.”

 

As the confused man turned and walked away, still checking his hand, Hermione let out a deep breath. That spell had taken a lot out of her. It had welled from the depths of her soul and touched every part of her on its way out. Her skin was sensitive, her blood raging; even her nipples were erect! She had an inkling why Dark magic was so tempting now. It called to the soul, tempting it with feelings of pleasure. Hermione smiled watched her soon-to-be ex-husband fly up to the rings at one end of the pitch.

 

Stooping down, calling to mind the words she needed, Hermione opened the chest at her feet. She could hear the announcer’s voice booming out into the chill air, but the words washed over her, unregistered. The Quaffle lay in its recess, mute and still; the two Bludgers quivered and shook, straining against the restraints that held them down. Then there was the Snitch, the tiny little golden orb lying in the box; so innocuous seeming and yet Hermione believed that she could see it trembling, its little wings wrapped tightly around its centre.

 

Carefully, using her wand to avoid touching the minute orb, she undid its strap and lifted the ball out, holding it above her head, muttering the spell under her breath as the crowd roared in delight. With a flick she sent the ball flying into the sky where it swiftly vanished. The Bludgers, released with a kick, followed swiftly afterwards, circling the pitch menacingly. Hermione scooped the Quaffle into her hands and addressed the team players, hovering above her.

 

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a nice clean game and entertain the crowds. Good luck!” As the commentator, joined by the crowd, shouted down from five, Hermione lifted her eyes to see Ron, at his goalposts, already starting to squirm and she grinned.

 

“… Three! Two! One! GAME ON!!” The Quaffle rocketed into the sky and the match was on.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“So,” Draco said, leaning closer to the witch at his side, her hand gripping Lucius’ thigh, “are you going to let us in on the secret of what you have planned for those two?”

 

“Nope.”

  
“I still don’t understand why you don’t just out the pair of them. Get it exposed!”

 

“To what end?” Hermione asked. “If they come out, declaring themselves as a couple; or even have their relationship exposed in a seedy way, through the tabloids, the scandal will last a month? A year, maybe, before the public get bored and move on to something more current. No, this is… better.”

 

The match had been on for half an hour now and nothing untoward appeared to be happening. In truth, Hermione had started to worry that she had got the spell wrong, that nothing _would_ happen and her revenge would fail. Both teams were playing their hardest and their fastest, blasting through the sky to the delight of the fans. Ron had already been called on to make several saves, which he did with consummate ease. His earlier discomfort seemed to have vanished and he sat his broom without fidgeting, moving swiftly to intercept any threat to his goals. Only three goals had been scored so far, though many shots had been taken. The score stood at 20-10 to England when Hermione sat up with a grin, Lucius gave a bark of laughter and Draco’s jaw dropped.

 

Bulgaria had the Quaffle, the Chasers passing it effortlessly between them, the Beaters flying guard. They blasted towards Ron, outstripping his defenders with some fine manoeuvres.

 

“Kakalova passes to Petrov, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a Bludger! Easily dealt with by Ivanov, the big guy whacking it towards the English Chasers. The Quaffle is now with Dragonova and she’s going to score, unless Weasley can keep it out!”

 

“Keep it out of his ring? Pah! That’s something he has trouble with… you know, sexually!”

 

The Quaffle flew into the middle goal, effortlessly past Ron, and Sofija Dragonova soared into the sky to celebrate, albeit with a slightly confused expression in her face. Ron was staring in shock at his crotch. The crowd tittered slightly, wondering what had just happened and the commentator was going bright red with embarrassment.

 

“I’m sorry folks, I’m not sure who said that and I apologise for any offence caused. The players are ready once more and the Quaffle is released, ready for another play.”

 

“Shame Ron can’t just keep his playing on the pitch! He has to play away from home too!” The voice boomed out over the grounds, as loud as before. There was no doubt where it was coming from though: Ron was sat on his broom, desperately trying to cover his crotch. The booming voice continued to shout, barely muffled by his efforts. “It’s a shame really. Did you know, when he was younger, he used to check his sister out when she was in the shower… Now you tell me, is that a little weird to anyone else!?”

 

The crowd was torn between laughter and gasps of horror at this. Ron, desperately trying to smother the voice, couldn’t focus on the game and the Quaffle sailed past him again.

 

“Wow!” declared his crotch. “That was like chucking a sausage down a corridor… something you’ve heard before, eh Ron?” As the man flared an even deeper shade of red, the voice continued, adding to his mortification. “Mind you, I shouldn’t mock him. With the size of his penis? He’s more to be pitied than scolded, I can assure you. I mean, you have _no_ idea how roomy this cup is; it’s like I’m in some kind of auditorium! Echo, echoo, echooo!”

 

The players could barely concentrate on their game and some of the England team had completely lost the will to play on; Marcus Flint was sat on his broom, in the middle of the pitch, roaring with laughter, even as the Bulgarian Chaser, Petrov, snatched the Quaffle from his hands.

 

The crowd was getting hysterical, howling with laughter, and only the most serious Bulgarian players were retaining any semblance of discipline. The two English Beaters, Miles and Puckett, had joined Flint in the giggles but it was short lived as a Bludger struck Puckett in the side of the head, nearly unseating him. A sniggering Bulgarian player, unable to hold in the laughter any longer, hauled the stunned man back onto his broom and the two steadied each other, tears of laughter streaming down their face.

 

“Enough!” yelled Ron, desperately. “Please, no more!”

 

“That’s what your wife said!” declared his trousers happily, to the approval of the crowd. “Hey, Sofija! Sofija!” The red-clad Chaser stopped in mid air, a confused look on her pretty face. “If you ever wanted to have sex with Ron, I’m sorry, but he’d have to disappoint you. He’d still have sex with you… but, you know…”

 

The laughter of the crowd was deafening, the commentator having given up trying to describe the game. The whole match had come to a total stand still and Ron desperately tried to flee from the stand. His broom failed to respond however and he was stuck, hovering in mid-air, as his groin continued to yell obscenities and insults at him and to the crowd.

 

“This man had a wife, well, still does, technically. But he couldn’t keep me in his pants and so now she’s left him! How’s that for a Christmas present?” The crowd began to boo, things started to be thrown even as the commentator tried to restore order. “I know, I know, dirty cheating little bugger, ain’t he… And you have no idea how accurate that phrase is for adultery boy here!”

 

Finally someone took action and the England captain, Jeffery, rallied around his Keeper, dragging him off his unmoving broom and carrying the sobbing man away. Even as they flew into the tunnel, his crotch had not finished with him.

 

“Weee!” it yelled. “Like diving into a shitty dirt pipe, much like you did a few nights ago, you cheating little cock gobbler!”

 

It took an hour for order to be restored, for the crowd to stop screaming with laughter and for Flint to do the same. Draco sat, high up in the stands, clutching his sides with tears streaming down his face, incoherent in his laughter. It would be days before the young man would be able to think of the match without bursting into giggles. England had substituted their back up Keeper and Ron had last been seen, flying away from the pitch as fast as he could.

 

As the match restarted again, the action was fast and furious, both teams getting back into the swing of the game and England taking the lead back from the Bulgarians. After another two hours of play, the score sat at 110 to 90 to England, and Krum suddenly dove, the England Seeker, Wills, hot on his tail. The slim blonde was slightly faster and began to edge ahead, both players’ eyes fixed on the tiny globe that flashed away across the pitch. Hermione sat forward to watch, praying silently, and hoping the right person won the race.

 

Dodging between players and avoiding Bludgers, the two fought to keep up with the Snitch as it dodged and dove aside. The crowd was going insane with excitement; while the Seekers fought to capture the Snitch, the Chasers continued to score, England still maintaining the lead and desperately trying to increase it, before Krum could grab the win.

 

The score was 200-110 when there was a huge roar of victory from the stands, Hermione gave a shuddering sigh of relief, and the commentator’s booming voice filled the air.

 

“THE SNITCH IS CAUGHT! Viktor Krum takes the Snitch after a hard fought battle! The final score! 200 to England and 260 to Bulgaria! Bulgaria takes the win!!”

 

The dark haired man held the golden orb aloft, the cheers of the crowd washing over him. After a moment though he gave a curse and tried to drop it. It stuck to his palm however and began to melt, the golden liquid flowing over his skin and around his hand and wrist. The molten fluid sank through his flesh and he scratched his skin frantically at the burning heat.

 

“This is my gift to you, Viktor,” Hermione’s voice whispered in his ears and he stared around, even as he clutched his wrist in horror. Hermione was nowhere near him, however, and she sat in her chair, high up in the stands, watching intently as her second curse took effect. “You didn’t think I had forgotten you, did you? You took my husband away from me, Viktor, and though I will heal and move on with my life, I have made sure that his own body will betray him. For the rest of his life, he will never find love again. As for you, and your love…”

 

Viktor gave a cry, as his groin and thighs began to feel like they were on fire, the skin burning with a terrible heat. Unable to maintain his balance he fell from his broom. He managed to grab the shaft, hanging on as he willed the broom lower. Even as the pain in his legs lessened, his hand began to burn and he let go, falling the short distance to the floor and landing heavily on his back. He lay, winded and gasping for breath, feeling the pain begin to fade again.

 

“You will never again be able to fly a broom. I have made sure that the curse upon you will cause you nothing but pain and discomfort the moment you touch a broomstick. No more games, no more fame: you will become an old has-been and fade into the background of the game you love, years before your time. This is the price for your betrayal.”

 

The Medi-witches and wizards crowded around the stricken player, checking him for injuries. The crowd was growing still, as they waited to see what had happened to the hero of the match. They jumped back into life however as he climbed to his feet, waving to the crowd, his face set in a stoic mask. Those closest to him though could see the tears, fear and pain in his eyes.

 

High above the pitch, Hermione stood, fighting to hold back the tears in her own eyes and her heart filled with relief. Lucius took her hand, kissing it softly. “Let us go home, pet. It’s over now.”

 

She nodded, turning to hug the tall man, feeling his arms wrap closely about her. His presence soothed her emotions and she sighed as she felt the crush of Apparition surround them.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The room was still dark but the sun was rising on Christmas morning. Hermione could see the light, mostly blocked by the heavy drapes, brightening the edges of the window. She had already checked the weather outside and it looked set to be a beautiful day; wonder of wonders it had snowed in the night, without any magical assistance, for a change.

 

Knocky had woken her an hour earlier than usual and she had quickly got herself washed and dressed, struggling a little until she asked Knocky to help. The look on the little elf’s face, at finally being asked to help dress her, made her sigh a little but it was necessary. She could never get the Sleekeazy potion to work by herself. It was only a small concession, she thought to herself, and just for today. An hour later and she had been dressed and ready, settling herself elsewhere in the Manor, resting on her elbow.

 

As she waited she thought on the events of the last few days. The events at the end of the match had been widely reported and it had taken up the front page as well as a full double page spread inside, giving a blow by blow account of the match itself. A smaller story, near the end of the double spread, had reported that Ron Weasley had left the England team in disgrace and was currently in hiding, refusing all interviews. She smiled wickedly, wondering how he had fared the first time he awoke with an erection. Funny jokes and put downs weren’t the only thing he had been cursed with. Any sexual thoughts or attempts at sex would unlock something far darker and nastier; she almost wished she could see it when it happened. The front page had also carried the story that Viktor Krum, as he had collected the trophy from the Minister for Magic on behalf of the team, had announced his retirement from the sport.

 

What the papers hadn’t reported was the visit Harry Potter had made to Malfoy Manor, the day after the match, to discuss the ‘unusual events’ that had occurred during the game. He had been sympathetic to what Hermione had been through, but as an Auror he had been duty bound to investigate the accusations Ron had made about her.

 

She had sat and answered his questions and then the two friends had sat and talked for some hours, catching up on everything that had happened. Harry had spent the last few months overseas, helping out with an international operation and hadn’t been able to help. He had felt awful, apologising for not being here for her, promising to give Ron a piece of his mind when he found him. Hermione had let him fluster for a little while and then laughed, punched him lightly on the arm and told him not to worry, that she was fine. When he had left, Harry had given her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Stay strong, Hermione. I’ll try and stop this going any further, if I can.”

 

The witch didn’t know yet if there would be any come back for her actions; the courts wouldn’t be reviewing the files until after the Christmas holidays and so she would have to live with the tension until then.

 

A slight noise and motion recalled the witch back to the present. He was waking up and Hermione flicked her wand, the heavy curtains sweeping aside and letting a blaze of winter sunshine into the large bedroom. Lucius sat up in bed, a little bleary eyed as he tried to see what was happening, his eyes trying to adjust to the sudden light. As his vision cleared, a large smile lit his face and his eyes danced with mirth and appreciation.

 

Hermione lay, draped across the end of his bed, lips slightly pouted as she winked at the surprised man. The light from the window set off the subtly reflective threads in the lingerie that she wore; the cups of her bra were a deep red with delicate jewels sewn into the edges that caught the light and blazed with an inner fire. The matching knickers had a cheeky sprig of mistletoe, embroidered upon the waistband. Her long, satin gloves were edged with white fur that tickled her skin, just above her elbow. Her hair was straightened and smooth, pulled back over her shoulder, leaving her neck bare and exposing her sparkling, Christmas themed earrings.

 

“Merry Christmas, Mister Malfoy,” she purred. “Want to unwrap your first present?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes from when it was originally posted on GE, several years ago:
> 
> With thanks to the PBTT: y’all know who you are, you lovely, wonderful people you! :)  
> So thank you for variously petting, glomping, cheerleading, alpha reading, beta reading and just generally being there to cuddle me as I cried my way through the writing process :D
> 
> To MM, my wonderful giftee! This was an awesome prompt and I thank you for that. I hope you enjoy what I’ve conjured and that it’s kind of what you were hoping for. I couldn’t get as far as anything saucy between our leads, I’m afraid. I hope you are not too disappointed. On the plus side, they are *totes* about to! ;) Happy Christmas xx
> 
> Original Prompt (given as part of the challenge)
> 
> 4\. Upon finding her (what she thought to be) loyal and loving husband engaged in a rather gymnastic sex act with another man Hermione finds comfort in the one family that lives to torment her husband's. Entering into a dangerous yet exciting path of dark magic to enact a little revenge on her wayward husband and finding a little love for herself along the way.
> 
> Kinks: Unrepentant Death Eater Lucius and Draco- publically repentant but in private they are still dark unapologetic wizards. Although they adore our favourite Muggleborn they're still arses lol Ron!Bashing. Intelligent!Savvy!Bantering!Hermione. Lucius referring to Hermione as 'Pet' or 'my dear'.


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